A desperate plea for salvation
I stood up to leave, but my father’s hand shot out. He gripped my forearm with surprising strength, his knuckles turning white against my jacket.
He begged me to wait, his voice cracking with desperation. He told me the bank was coming next week to evict them from the property.
Without the fifty thousand dollars, they would be on the street in days. His eyes darted around the diner, terrified of the impending loss.